Manning
by Sasjah Miller
Summary: Home is a wisp of clouds inthe sky, a trail of dust on the horizon (Tristan, TristanArthur,pre-slash)


Title: Manning  
Author: Sasjah Miller  
Website: Arandur Mine  
Fandom: King Arthur (movieverse)  
Pairing: Tristan, Tristan/Arthur  
Rating: PG-13  
Archive: Please ask, I'll probably say yes  
Disclaimer: Not mine  
  
"_The process of training a hawk comprises of several distinct  
phases. The first phase of training is known as "manning". During  
this phase the hawk learns to be carried on the glove and is taught  
that the falconer will provide food from his glove. The hawk will  
also steadily overcome the fear of people and things that she will  
encounter within our environment. The manning of a hawk can be  
most easily carried out by restricting the food intake of the bird,  
when hungry, food can be used to build a bond between the  
falconer and hawk. This phase of training can be thought of as  
complete when the hawk will sit steadily on the glove and is  
relaxed in the presence of the falconer."  
What is_ _Falconry _

My lady does not care for the ocean. She sits huddled between my  
legs, her head hiding miserably in her feathers. There are no mice,  
no rabbits to hunt here on the endless expanse, only wetness and a  
quick watery death. So she has turned inwards, into herself,  
refusing even the bits of meat I tempt her with and ignores the  
sudden shifts and surges when our boat skims the waves towards a  
future neither of us has ever wanted.  
  
In an odd, eerie way the ocean reminds me of home, of the wide  
plains of Sarmatia I grew up on; oceans of grass in summer, snow  
in winter, and the sky as grey as the ocean we are sailing now. I  
observe the memory and the feeling it evokes in me. It does not  
help me to feel like this so I bury it in the safe place, the one inside  
me that no one can touch or find, only my lady of the endless sky.  
  
This boat we're on, my lady and I, is laden with miserable boys  
who try to find comfort in the words of the captain that it won't be  
long now, and if they would care to lift their eyes and stop  
examining the bottom of his ship as if it were to fall away from  
under them right now they'd already see the white cliffs of the  
island that is going to be our home for the next fifteen years. Not  
home: a place to eat, to sleep and to fight and probably die. Home  
is fifteen years away from here.  
  
Home is a wisp of clouds in the sky, a trail of dust on the horizon,  
it's there but it might as well not be for all the good that it does me.  
This boat and everyone that's on it, puking, moaning, or simply  
sitting grey faced with their heads between their knees is getting on  
my nerves.  
  
The Roman officers that are with us aren't really helping to lighten  
the mood. I doubt we've had ten friendly words from them this  
whole journey. We have not been mistreated, not by far (they  
wouldn't have gotten away with it, a throat is easily slit in the dark  
of the Germanian forest) but they haven't been exactly friendly  
towards us either. At least they've let us keep our horses; they are  
stationed in the bilges below trying to keep their balance while  
munching in utter content from the swaying hay sacks in front of  
them.  
  
And then we are there: at the foot of the bone white cliffs of  
Britannia. Seagulls cry over our heads, and my lady perks up,  
suddenly awake and eager. She hops on my hand and pecks at the  
meat I hold between my gloved fingers. I stand up, swaying gently  
and still silently queasy, but the coast is so near now that I can see  
a single figure standing on the beach, backlit by the setting sun, the  
bloodred rays dancing off his gleaming helmet.  
  
Roman officer.  
  
The Roman officer.  
  
The one the common soldiers told us about when we shared the  
last dregs of beer with them and the fire we'd built was warm and  
inviting; the officers snoring noisily, rolled up tightly in their  
mantles, and all the pleasure girls gone back to their houses to  
sleep away whatever was left of the night because all of our coin  
had been spent on their dubious graces hours ago. The one too  
good to be true. The one who will lead us to our deaths.  
  
Suddenly my lady alights from my hand, beats her wings and soars  
up into the sky, sensing the land that we are now approaching  
rapidly. I let her go; she will come back to me. By the time the  
captain's finally managed to bring the boat ashore she is perched  
on a boulder, close to the Roman officer, tearing ferociously at  
something furry and not quite dead yet. We set foot on land and  
curiously enough it sways beneath us, the way the world moves  
sometimes when you've ridden hard for hours without rest.  
  
I whistle and my lady, who has by now finished her first  
Britannian meal, takes wing again and flies toward me. She shears  
past the officer's head, the tip of her wings almost touching his hair  
that is black as the Sarmatian night, and lands with perfect ease on  
my outstretched hand. I smile and gently smoothe her neck  
feathers, the way she likes it done. The Roman officer's gaze has  
not strayed from our group, although my lady has done her best to  
ruffle his feathers and I feel a grudging admiration rising inside me.  
Singleminded and impertubable. I like that in a man. Even if he's  
the one whose job it is to get me killed.  
  
"Welcome to Britannia, you who have travelled so far to come  
here. My name is Artorius Castus, your commander in spe," he  
says, a smile warming his words as he approaches us, his hands  
outstretched in a broad gesture of welcome to us all. "God has been  
merciful," he continues, "there is no rain tonight; a sure sign that  
your stay here in Britannia will be blessed and fruitful. Tomorrow  
we will travel to Hadrian's Wall and you will tell me who you are,  
but tonight you drink and eat, because for now your long journey is  
over."  
  
There is no food here on the beach save the rodent my lady has  
caught, and we tarry, unsure where he wants us to go. He sees us  
waver and points to the darkening cliffs behind him where  
suddenly lights spring up, showing a path leading up the rocks and  
over it.  
  
"Lads," he says, a sudden feral grin on his face, "I'm not sure about  
you, but I'm pretty hungry myself from standing on this bloody  
beach the whole afternoon waiting for you all to arrive. I could  
definitely do with a draft of good ale, a place to rest my ass, and a  
well cooked piece of mutton."  
  
And he turns around and starts to walk towards the beckoning  
lights, his boots kicking up clouds of sand and grit that settle  
slowly around us, not doubting for a moment we will follow.  
  
The End


End file.
